


the naming of cats is a difficult matter

by Cinaed



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Ensemble Cast, Fluff and Humor, Gen, POV Multiple, Pets, RvB Fluff Week, Season/Series 15 Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-30
Updated: 2018-03-30
Packaged: 2019-04-14 23:23:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14146872
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cinaed/pseuds/Cinaed
Summary: The many adventures of Whiskers, also known as Whiskers James Garfield Donut. Or Private Warmachine. Or Garfield. Or Oreo. Or Pi. Or Asshole. It depends on who you ask, really.





	the naming of cats is a difficult matter

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Fluff Week, for secretlystephaniebrown's request of "The many adventures of Whiskers, aka the cat that sleeps in people's helmets." 
> 
> The title comes from "The Naming of Cats" from Cats because how else would I title a fic about Whiskers. 
> 
> The song Sarge sings is his own version of Arthur Fields' "[Let's Bury the Hatchet](https://archive.org/details/SONGSOFWORLDWARI-NewTransfer/15.LetsBuryTheHatchet.mp3)" from WWI. 
> 
> Thanks go out to CC and Prim for helping me figure out some stuff for this fic, as well as all the names the Reds and Blues would give Whiskers.

**I.**

 

He didn’t have to choose another big cat. This place was filled with birds and mice. There was water and no dogs. He could easily hide until these strange big cats with their hard fur and loud feet have come and gone.  
  
But then one of them sang. Not as well as _he_ could, of course, and he doubted if any females in heat would like it, but he was drawn to the sound. His big cat had used to sing, he remembered, sometimes to herself and sometimes to him. He misses her warmth and the wet food she hunted for him.

He moved closer, curious. He’d watched the group split off. Now they wandered through his territory one by one, going into houses for a while and then coming back out. Were they choosing their own territory? Even as he watched, the singing one sat down on the porch of a house. Apparently its weird fur wasn’t fur at all, because it lifted the hard-fur away to reveal a head much more similar to his big cat’s head. Then it began to eat in that weird slow way big cats did, lifting the food with a paw to its mouth one piece at a time.

It made him impatient to watch. He sniffed cautiously at the wind. The air smelled a little like the wet food his big cat had hunted for him. He slunk closer, keeping to the long grass. The big cat might drop some food. He crouched at the edge of his hiding place, watching hopefully.

The big cat didn’t drop anything. Instead after a moment it tossed a piece of food. The food landed just beyond his reach, and the big cat broke off from eating to say something in a low rumble.

It was trying to share, he realized, the way his old big cat had. A moment’s hesitation, and then the smell taunted him again. Curiosity won out. Besides, he reasoned, these big cats were slow. He’d be able to eat and run away before the big cat could even stand.

He crept forward.

 

  
**II.**

 

The cat that emerged from the grass moved with a confident wariness. Sarge watched it approach the offered piece of meat, keeping still so as not to spoke the little thing. Dogs were clearly the better animal, military beasts at heart and loyal, but he admired cats. They had a killer’s instinct and a commendable self-sufficiency. This one was clearly a hunter. It looked fairly well-fed, though no humans had lived in this town for at least three years. It must have been surviving on its own all this time.  
  
The cat ate the chicken in one quick bite and then sat at parade rest, its ears forward, its expression expectant. Sarge chuckled. “Look at that. Even cats have better posture than Grif. Maybe _you_ should join the Red Army.”

He tossed another piece of chicken to the cat. The sunlight caught in the cat’s fur, turning it a reddish-orange as the cat pounced on the meat. Sarge frowned. “Though you’ll have to change your fur color, private. Orange doesn’t suit anyone!”

The cat ate the chicken. Its tail twitched in obvious agreement.

Sarge’s helmet crackled. When he lifted it up, he heard Donut’s tinny voice say, “Sarge, where are you? Grif found a huge stash of food supplies!”

Sarge snorted. “Of course he did. The man’s got a nose like a bloodhound when it comes to food. Give me your coordinates before he eats the entire supply.” As Donut complied, he hastily stuffed the rest of the MRE meal into his mouth and swallowed. Another piece of chicken fell into his lap. He threw that to the cat and then stood, grabbing his shotgun. They'd flushed out and killed the last of Hargrove’s men a week ago, but it was better to be safe than sorry.  

The cat followed him.

He chuckled again. “Well, fall in, Private--” He paused, thinking over names, and crouched for a moment to scratch roughly behind the cat’s ears. “Fall in, Private Warmachine! We’ll discuss your change in stripes later.”

They walked side by side. After a moment, Sarge began to sing again.

_“While the Reds march away to fight the Blue foe_ __  
_The pacifists are shouting "PEACE!" and say they shouldn't go._ __  
_They claim the hatchet must be buried by the Reds now._ __  
_Perhaps they're right, we must have peace,...and so I'll tell them how._ __  
_Let's bury the hatchet, let's bury the hatchet,_  
_Let's bury the hatchet in a Blue's head!”_

 

**III.**

 

Donut tapped a finger against his lips, frowning thoughtfully at his tiered plate display.

Something was wrong, and it wasn’t just that Chorus’s current food selection was a sad state of affairs. How had these people survived on basically scraps and MREs for nearly a decade? It hurt Donut’s soul to contemplate. Even his usual blackmarket dealer had said it would be a month or two before he could establish a supply run to Chorus. As it stood, it had taken him the entire week to get enough cheese for the group. He didn’t know how he’d get enough for the next Wine and Cheese Hour. But that wasn’t today’s problem.

Today’s problem, he decided, was the appearance. Some cows had survived the war, apparently a valuable and highly guarded resource of the rebels, so there was some fairly fresh cheese available, but something about the plants on Chorus had turned milk and cheese a bright rose red.  

“I know Sarge will appreciate the color, but it’s so monotonous,” he told Whiskers, who looked up from licking his tail. Whiskers looked gravely attentive. “Especially with no other cheeses at all! Where’s the variety? I pride myself on my Wine and Cheese Hours being a feast for all the senses! An hour to indulge--”

“Uh, Donut?” a tentative voice said. “Is that...a cat?”

Donut turned and beamed. He set aside the Wine and Cheese Hour problem for the moment. “Doc! How are you feeling?”

“Better,” Doc said. He frowned, still a little heavy-eyed from a recent sedation. His gaze flickered between Donut and Whiskers. “...I think. That cat’s real, right?” A bit of anxiety crept into his voice, like he wasn’t quite certain.

“Oh, that’s right! You haven’t met Whiskers, have you?” Donut stepped away from his tiered plates. He scooped up Whiskers, who meowed in protest but didn’t struggle. He held Whiskers out to Doc. The cat and the man studied each other, their faces almost close enough to touch. “Frank DuFresne, may I present to you Whiskers James Garfield Donut. He prefers Whiskers. Whiskers, this is Frank DuFresne. He prefers Frank or Doc.”

Doc reached out and scratched Whiskers under his chin. When the cat purred, he smiled, surprised and pleased. “Hello, Whiskers. When did you get a cat?”

“Well, Sarge found him last week, but _unfortunately_ Sarge has lost cat privileges until further notice.” Donut shuddered. The memory of walking in on Sarge trying to drop poor Whiskers into a tub of red dye wasn’t going to fade any time soon. “And if you hear anyone refer to Whiskers as Private Warmachine, ignore them.”

“So he’s Whiskers James Garfield Donut?” Doc repeated, still scratching Whiskers under the chin. “At the commune, we always gave our pets human names, so we’d remember to treat them with the respect they deserve.” He studied Whiskers. “He does look like a James….”

“He _looks_ like he has star quality,” Donut said with a laugh. He shifted so that he and Doc stood shoulder to shoulder, Whiskers purring blissfully in his arms. “Smile!” As Doc blinked but obeyed, a wan but sincere smile on his face, Donut snapped a few selfies. He studied each one carefully and then uploaded the best of the lot. “You wouldn’t believe how many people follow his Basebook! Then again, maybe you would. He’s so photogenic!”

“...You made Whiskers his own Basebook?”

“Of course!”   

 

**IV.**

 

Sarge was having a hard time adjusting to retirement. This particular downcast look wasn’t one Simmons had seen before, though, and he found himself approaching Sarge with a cautious, “Is everything all right, sir?”

“No,” Sarge said grimly. “No it isn’t. We’ve been betrayed! By our own man!” A hint of barely repressed anguish crept into his voice.

Simmons glanced around. He didn’t see anything out of the ordinary. “You mean Carolina and Grif?” he ventured after a moment, squinting at their distant forms. He was pretty sure Grif was in the middle of teaching her how to nap. “I thought you said that it would weaken the Blue Team if Grif’s laziness wore off on her.”

“And it will! Besides, of course Grif would help a dirty Blue! That’s no surprise.”

“Well, I don’t know that she’s actually Blue Team--”

“I don’t care about _Grif_! Look!” Sarge pointed a finger that trembled with outrage.

Simmons followed the direction of Sarge’s finger. He was glad that his helmet hid his expression. A familiar orange cat was leaping around Freckles, swiping a paw at the miniature robot’s back and then bolting out of reach as Freckles wheeled and fired harmless lasers in retribution. He was a little sorry that Donut was around. It would make an adorable video. “You mean Pi and Freckles, sir?”

“Pi? Who in tarnation is Pi? I’m talking about Private Warmachine!”

“Oh,” Simmons said weakly. “Yes, of course. An excellent name, sir. It truly matches his character.”  

Sarge sighed heavily. “Yesterday I would have agreed with you. But now…. At first I thought Private Warmachine recognized Freckles as a Blue and was doing his damnedest to kill his enemy. I was so proud of the little fella! But then I realized they were….” He trailed off, and Simmons could have sworn there was a sob in his voice when he concluded, “They were _playing_! A betrayal! How could he do this to me? You think you understand someone, that he’ll fight alongside you for the rest of your life, and then suddenly he’s off cavorting with the enemy and you’re left to fight the war on your own!”

Simmons didn’t think Sarge was talking about Pi anymore. He reached out and tentatively patted Sarge’s shoulder. “Sir, uh, I think you misunderstood Pi-- Private Warmachine’s intentions. Maybe he’s learning Freckles’ strengths and weaknesses by pretending to befriend him.”

“You really think so?”

Freckles’ lasers swept the ground and Pi batted wildly at them, tail thrashing.

“Yes,” Simmons lied.

Sarge brightened. “I knew he wouldn’t betray me!” He put his hands around his mouth and shouted, “ _Learn all his weaknesses, private_!”

Simmons took a deep breath. It was fine. He wasn’t jealous of a cat.    

“That’s my boy!” Sarge said proudly as Pi knocked Freckles’ legs out from under him.

“I am totally jealous of a cat,” Simmons muttered under his breath.

 

**V.**

 

“Please be quiet,” Locus said.

And Grif tried. He really did. He went into Locus’s bed-quarters and stripped off his armor before he sat on the cot. He was too tired to sleep, so he concentrated on breathing. Maybe he could breathe to a hundred and that would be long enough for Locus to be okay with him talking again. Then he got distracted wondering if he should be counting the inhales and exhales individually, or if an inhale and an exhale counted as one breath.

He was about to ask Locus when something moved in the corner of his eye. He ignored it. He’d seen a lot of things that weren’t there on the moon. Locus already thought he was insane. No reason to add fuel to the fire. Was that how the saying went? Then something rubbed against his hip and crawled into his lap. It was a familiar orange cat. Its fur felt real under his hand, and its sharp claws felt even more real as they kneaded his thighs, but Grif knew that Donut had taken Oreo with him on their rescue mission. He wouldn’t have left someone he cared about behind.

He swallowed, his stomach lurching. The non-existent cat nudged at his hand.  

“Um, Locus? Do you have a cat?”

There was a moment of silence, and then Locus said, “No.”

“Okay, then never mind,” Grif said quickly. He caught himself stroking his hand down Oreo’s back, watching Oreo wiggle in half-delight, half-irritation. If this was a hallucination, at least it was a good one. “Forget I asked.”

Locus peered into the room, Lopez tucked under one arm. “That...is a cat,” he said flatly.

“ _Did neither of you notice the cat follow us onto the ship_?” Lopez asked, sounding disbelieving. Locus looked down at him, and Lopez added hastily, “ _Though of course Grif's insanity would be distracting._ _Donut cried when he realized he’d left Asshole behind, but Tucker said they couldn’t waste time on a cat.”_ He paused and then added, “ _I thought you’d eat him_.”

Grif cuddled Oreo protectively to his chest, ignoring the cat’s squirming protests. “What the fuck, Lopez? I wouldn’t eat Oreo! Even if I was really, really, _really_ hungry! That’s just wrong!” He paused and squinted down at Oreo. For a cat that had been abandoned on the moon where there wasn’t any rats or mice or birds to eat, Oreo didn’t look that much thinner. “Oreo, were you the one eating some of my rations? I thought I’d just lost track of my supplies.”

He waited, but Oreo didn’t answer. That was okay. Oreo was alive, and Donut was going to be really happy to see him. Maybe he hadn’t completely screwed things up after all.

 

**VI.**

 

Wash woke up from a morphine-induced sleep to find Carolina and Tucker standing over his hospital bed. He blinked up at them. His thoughts were slow and a little jumbled, but after a few seconds he remembered to smile. “Hey,” he whispered.

Tucker grinned back. “Hey yourself.”

“Hey, Wash,” Carolina said. She exchanged a look with Tucker and added, a slow smile spreading across her face, “Surprise!”

“Surprise?” Wash’s sluggish mind nudged at him. He frowned and looked at Carolina again. Something was different. He squinted harder, trying to figure it out. “Did you cut your hair?”

Tucker laughed. “I forgot Dr. Grey has you on the good stuff. Here, I’ll give you a hint. Carolina’s holding him, and he probably enjoys lasagna.”

Wash frowned. He turned that last sentence over in his head and studied it from all angles, but it was still incomprehensible. “What?”

Tucker sighed. He spoke slowly. “Let me try that again. We borrowed Garfield from Donut because Carolina said you like cats, and Donut said okay.”

“A cat?” Wash repeated, and finally noticed the large orange cat half-draped over Carolina’s shoulder like a shawl. His chest constricted. He reached out for it, ignoring the sharp not-quite-pain as his IVs shifting in his arm. “You brought me a _cat_? Donut doesn’t have a cat.”

Carolina settled Garfield carefully in Wash’s lap. The cat bumped his chin with its head, the cold, wet nose tickling the bare skin of Wash’s neck just above his bandages. Wash ran a wondering hand over the cat’s spine. “Donut doesn’t have a cat,” he said again. It turned into a question. 

“Uh, yeah, he does. He’s had one since Chorus. Did you really never meet Garfield?”

“Donut calls him Whiskers,” Carolina said. "He was dropped off with you by L-- by our mutual friend. I believe Lieutenant Jensen took care of him while we were stopping Temple."

It took Wash a second to absorb this news. His eyes filled with tears as the cat chewed on the tip of his chin with sharp little teeth. “Donut had a cat for over a year and he hid him from me? Is this because I shot him?”

Tucker looked alarmed. “Hey, dude, don’t cry.”

Carolina gently tugged the cat away from Wash’s chin. Garfield resettled in Wash’s lap, lifting up his head for more scratches. Carolina absently scratched under the cat’s jaw as she said, “Don’t worry, Tucker. It’s just the drugs. Once he started crying that he could never tell his cats he loved them and be sure they understood.”

“I just wanted them to know I loved them!” Wash said, his throat closing up. He was stricken all over again with the injustice of living in the future without pet communication technology. 

“Well, what do we have here?” Dr. Grey asked, appearing at Carolina’s side like a ghost. She tilted her head and made a thoughtful noise in her throat. “A cat? Agent Carolina, you should know better than to bring an animal into my hospital without permission. Cats are unsanitary creatures.”

“Take that back!” Wash snapped, cuddling the cat and glaring. “And apologize to Garfield or….” He lost track of his own words as Garfield headbutted him again, demanding less cuddles and more petting.  

Dr. Grey gave a delighted giggle. “Oh, Agent Washington, was that meant as a threat? How lovely! I suppose therapy animals do offer several health benefits. And I’ve always liked cats myself. Did you know that studies show that cats can actually sense death? Isn’t that _fascinating_?" She tapped her cheek. "Hm, this cat does seem quite taken with you….”

Tucker stared. “Cats can do what now?”

 

**VII.**

 

It was a nice day. The sun was warm on Caboose’s face because he’d remembered how to take off his helmet by himself, Wash had made pancakes for breakfast and they’d been only a little burned, and Freckles had managed to surprise Tucker on the stairs. Caboose was so proud of him! The only bad thing was that now the base was empty and Tucker and Wash were nowhere in sight. He wondered where everyone was. 

He rounded the side of the base, Freckles trailing at his heels, to find his friends standing in the middle of the canyon. Curious, he kept his helmet against his chest and wandered over.

“Hey, guys!” he said cheerfully. No one said anything, but that was okay. They all seemed pretty busy staring at a picture of Tigger. Someone had put some flowers and a couple vanilla-scented candles around the photo. Caboose brightened. “Oh wow! Is it Tigger’s birthday and no one told me? I _love_ birthday parties! Can I blow out the candles for Tigger? Where's the cake?”

“Hi, Caboose,” Carolina said. She hesitated. “No, it’s not his birthday. He….”

Donut sobbed. He pressed a black handkerchief against the front of his helmet. “It’s his _funeral_! My poor Whiskers, taken from this world too soon because I trusted the wrong people with my precious child! Whiskers, I failed you!”

“His funeral?” Caboose lifted his helmet and frowned down into it. “Mr. Tigger, you should’ve told me it was your funeral. I would’ve brought flowers!”

Tigger blinked sleepily at him and meowed.

“That’s no excuse,” Caboose said sternly. He set the helmet on the ground in front of the photo. “Now I look like a bad friend.” When he looked up, everyone was staring.

“Whiskers?” Donut said faintly, dropping his handkerchief. He dove for the helmet and scooped Tigger out. Tigger dangled in his grip, purring. “Whiskers! You’re alive!”

“Wait, he’s _alive_? Then what the fuck did we bury?” Grif demanded.

“An empty box,” Donut said, burying his face in Tigger’s fur. Wash hovered beside him like he was going to give Tigger a hug too as soon as Donut would let him. “I couldn’t find his body and I had to bury _something_.”

“And it never occurred to you that he might be alive?” Simmons asked, his arms folded against his chest. “That the lack of a body might mean that Pi was just hiding at the Blue Base?”

“Heh, I knew Private Warmachine wasn’t dead,” Sarge said. His voice sounded a little rough though, like he’d been crying again, and Caboose wasn’t sure that he believed him. “It’ll take more than Grif and Simmons letting him down to kill my little soldier.”

“Wait,” Carolina said slowly. She stared around the group. “Do you all have different names for the cat?”

“Uh, yes, because everyone else’s names suck,” Tucker said, shrugging. He waved a hand at Tigger. “He’s a fucking orange cat. You  _have_ to name him Garfield.” He paused and tilted his head toward Caboose. “Though Tigger is pretty good too.”

“Thanks, Tucker,” Caboose said happily even as Sarge growled, “Private Warmachine is an outstanding name for a fine soldier!”

“I think Oreo is a good--”

Simmons interrupted Grif. “Is the cat black and white like an Oreo? No? Then why the fuck would you name him Oreo?”

“Uh, because oreos are awesome and so is that cat?” Grif said, shrugging. "And I wouldn't throw stones there, buddy. You named him after some fake nerd number. What does that have to do with cats?"

" _Su nombre es Cabrón porque es un cabrón_ ,” Lopez said.

Everyone started yelling, and Caboose smiled. It was a very nice day. 


End file.
